Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  Last, of course, there was Kabul himself. The Great Khan of the Huns, for whom Sharon kept a special and personal hatred. Her friends could do with the others what they may, but Kabul was hers. She alone would mete out his punishment although none of her compatriots yet knew it.

  Eight sons. One father.

  A tiny, worn leather pouch rested at her side; she reached for it, poured the contents into her palm. Eight small stones, each a different color, glittered in the light. Tariq watched her with growing fascination as her hand closed lightly and she shook them, tossing them to the rug beneath her feet like a soldier might cast dice. The chipped amber stone rested in the center.

  “Gamal,” she said with a sardonic smile.

  Tariq nodded his head somberly. “Then let it begin.”

  Chapter Eight

  The slaves stood in a row, mutely, heads bent, hands clasped behind their backs, links of heavy chains clanking each time one was prodded forward. Amar, the slaver, grinned as his turbaned auctioneer closed the price on a muscular and well-endowed youth from the coast of Africa. He kept a careful eye while the next in line, a frightened, dark-skinned boy from the great houses of Mesopotamia, had his bonds removed and was prodded roughly onto the narrow platform. There, beneath a gleaming, hot sun, he stood almost naked, ashamedly, while onlookers by the score gawked at him, murmured among each other about his qualities.

  The Afghani auctioneer quickly read off a list of the boy’s abilities. Soft hands assured potential buyers he’d never toiled either in field or barrack, his breeding had been one of quality; trained first as common servant, then elevated in stature to singer for one of the noblest families in all the Near East.

  To Amar’s disgruntlement, the opening bids were low. Few in Samarkand had use for a slave whose main occupation was to recite poetry, sing and dance to entertain his masters. And as the bidding continued, the cunning slaver cursed softly for ever having bought the lad from the Egyptian caravaneer. The loss was surely to come from his own pocket.

  A carefully-planted shill offered a few coins above the last offer, then slipped back into the crowd, smiling as the ploy brought a quick counter-offer.

  The Afghani glanced to Amar, saw the frown and, wiping sweat from his paunchy face, extolled the slave. Surely such a refined slave of education was worth a ransom in Samarkand. His very presence would elevate the status of any household. But the dour and mediocre stares told him the buyers had no eye for such excellence. Strong backs and small brains were all they were interested in.

  “For shame!” berated the auctioneer, his desperation growing more plain. He pressed open the slave’s mouth with his hand, showed the perfect teeth, made the youth straighten, had him turn around slowly so everyone could note his unblemished flesh. “Never has this boy been brought under the lash! Never has he abused his former masters. Good citizens, reconsider his value!”

  The auctioneer was greeted with a ripple of sneering laughter. Amar let his gaze drift to the direction of the sound; his eyes widened with some surprise. Standing in a group at the edge of the throng, within close distance to the platform, were three men he feared and despised. The Khan’s sons — Temugin, Tupol, and Niko. What had brought them here to the market today he did not know; perhaps they had come for amusement, or maybe they were here to bid on the women.

  Amar shook his head. The cream of the lot was always brought to the palace for first inspection. Then why? Another disquieting thought toyed around the edges of his mind: What if they knew? What if they suspected him, had learned of his secret dealings with the hated Kazirs? Should that be the case, his life was no longer worth a copper.

  He eyed the visitors without being obvious. They seemed, to Amar’s hidden relief, preoccupied with other matters. The slaver sighed; it was an innocent visit, his belief underscored by the banter between them and his auctioneer, whom they had begun to rile.

  Hands on hips, the curly-haired, handsome Niko laughed in the face of the sputtering Afghani. With a wink to his snickering brothers, he said, “Your slave seems as brittle as a twig. You should have grouped him with the women!”

  Temugin, tight-eyed and arrogant, boisterously laughed, fingering the deep scar from a Saracen’s blade running from cheek to the side of his mouth.

  Niko, spurred on by merriment and mischief, bounded the platform, his elegant cloak of Persian wool fanning behind, and began to taunt the frustrated auctioneer by mimicking him mercilessly. He pinched the slave’s soft flesh in mock admiration, checked his teeth while tapping an impatient foot. “So you recite poems, eh?”

  Eyes downcast, the youth whispered, “Yes, m’lord.”

  “And you sing as well?”

  “Yes, m’lord. Sing — and dance.”

  Niko chuckled. He turned to the Afghani, saying, “Tell me, auctioneer, does he dance with veils?”

  The crowd laughed in appreciation of Niko’s renowned wit. The auctioneer countered brazenly, “Women have no objections to his performance.”

  “So? Then the lad is popular with the ladies, eh?” He pored over the slave’s trim form with intent eyes. “I would have thought a boy like this spends his nights more intellectually.”

  “Buggered by his Arabian sheiks, you mean!” guffawed Temugin. “Ask the Afghani if the slave prefers, er, more masculine company to while away winter nights.”

  “Dear, misguided Brother,” said Niko, peering down from the sawdusted platform toward Temugin. “You hear the auctioneer; this slave is most popular with the ladies.”

  To which the Afghani quickly said, “But no man, Lord Niko, is as popular with them as yourself.”

  While Niko turned red, both his brothers roared. “Your reputation has followed you to the markets!” catcalled Temugin, digging his elbow into quiet Tupol’s ribs. The rest of the crowd smiled, some openly laughing. Indeed, the dashing son of Kabul was well known for his exploits; it was said not a single woman in Samarkand was safe with him around — not even his father’s private wives.

  Niko grinned as he addressed the crowd. “I admit that I’ve always been of an amorous nature,” he told them in a friendly manner. “But now, according to this Afghani, it seems I’m in for some competition.”

  “Poor older brother,” called out Tupol, speaking for the first time. “Whatever will you do?”

  Again the crowd laughed, enjoying the joke at Niko’s expense. With a good-natured pat on the back for the auctioneer, he said, “You have caused me a dilemma, friend. I cannot risk my reputation thus. This city is far too small for two such lovers.”

  “Afraid of the competition?”

  Niko glanced to Temugin, his steely-eyed brother digging daggers into him. “Afraid of what? This boy?”

  “Better get rid of him while you have the chance,” cautioned Tupol with a smirk. Behind his humor, though, there was deadly intent and warning. Temugin was riding his handsome brother with purpose, openly exposing Niko before the crowd as a woman’s man and nothing else. A poor choice to be heir to the Khan.

  Niko took the bait. “What would you recommend, little brother?”

  Before the deformed youth could respond, Temugin in a single movement drew a curved knife from its sheath, tossed it up to the waiting Niko, who caught it expertly by the hilt. The blade glinted in brilliant light. Fear showed in both the eyes of the slave and the auctioneer.

  “Kill him,” slurred Temugin. “That is, if you have stomach enough for it.”

  The Afghani stepped between the wavering Niko and the distraught slave. “He is not yet yours, my lord. We’ve gone to great expense both to buy and feed the slave...”

  “Pay the Afghani,” rattled Temugin. “Pay his price and slit the slave’s belly.”

  The crowd hooted, demanded the boy’s death. Amar glanced at the bloodthirsty throng in despair, afraid to interfere with the game Kabul’s sons played, biting his lip as Niko handled the knife and wielded it before the boy’s frightened eyes.

  “Go on,” called Temugin, eager to see if
his brother was man enough to do the deed. Caution flickered across Niko’s face, he looked again to Tupol. The cunning, twitching youth grimly smiled. “Kill him, Niko — or buy him.”

  Niko lowered his knife.

  “Bring the boy back to the palace,” went on the clever, manipulative Tupol. “It might be amusing to let him sing his songs and recite his poems for us.”

  “I will give you a fair price,” promised the auctioneer, seizing the initiative now that he saw a wedge between the brothers. “It would be a waste to deprive an intelligent slave of his life...”

  The look within Temugin’s deep-set eyes was filled with scorn, Niko saw. A scorn that had always been there, and would remain even if the slave was killed. “You are wise, little brother,” said Niko at last. He casually tossed the blade back to Temugin, grinned his famous, charming grin for the auctioneer. “Have the slave washed and garbed in some decent clothes. Bring him to the palace tonight, and present your bill.”

  Amar drew a long breath of relief as the Afghani nodded and bowed before the dandy, Niko. But to what use the dashing son of Kabul intended to put the boy he had no idea. Of one thing he was positive, though: none of the Khan’s cagey sons did anything casually or carelessly. Niko had a purpose in bringing this boy to the palace; perhaps crafty Tupol realized it even if Temugin did not.

  Niko jumped off the platform spryly, his attention immediately turned to the pretty, veiled women scattered throughout the crowd. As the auctioneer had the next slave unchained and brought for display, the three brothers turned from the market and wove their way across the pavilion.

  “You’re a fool,” grunted Temugin.

  Niko looked at his mail-clad warrior brother with disdain. “I spend my money in any fashion that amuses me,” he retorted. “Go back to your war games, Temugin. Practice for the day of Gamal’s return. Make sure your blade slits his throat before your own is cut.”

  Amid the reeking of dung and meat on display in the stalls of the market, Temugin regarded his flamboyant brother with a sneer. “Your tongue wags too much, Niko. A piece of advice: Be careful on how many toes you step. A man in your position can’t afford many more enemies.”

  The gutters were lined with beggars, meatless arms reaching to the air, pleading with passers-by. The three brothers ignored them all, picked a path that would lead to the courtyard of the mosque and the palace gates. Unspeaking, they had almost cleared the busy avenue of merchants, acknowledging the respectful bows of passing soldiers on patrol in the city, when from the shadows another figure hunkered before them, suddenly and abruptly. Temugin by reflex drew his knife halfway out from the sheath. Tupol put a hand to his brother’s ready arm, and the three of them stared at the shuffling figure.

  The man had once been quite tall, they saw, only now he was bent over with age and disease. His face was tightly drawn, pale as the moon, most unlike the bronzed flesh of the other beggars who sat relentlessly in sunlight. His eyes drooped, his lips quivered as he approached. Dressed in the filthiest of rags, he somehow bore himself apart in stature from the many thousands of his kind.

  “Noble lords,” croaked the man, his hand extended.

  “Begone!” hissed Temugin, in no mood for conversation.

  The aged man’s matted white hair fell over his eyes, and he stooped as he continued. “The stars,” he said clearly. “Let me read them for you; let me tell you each his glorious future...”

  Temugin was ready to push the loathsome beggar away, hurl him to the gutter. He met the beggar’s piercing eyes and something made him hesitate.

  “You claim to predict the future?” asked Tupol, himself as stooped as the vagabond.

  The old man’s hands shook as they gestured into the air. “It is the will of Allah that I have been given the Vision,” he croaked. “Know ye that my predictions have never been disputed, not even by the kings whom I once served...”

  Niko smiled at the old man’s senility, felt for his purse to take out a few small coins. “Here, old sage,” he said, “spend these wisely on food and drink.”

  To the surprise of them all, the bedraggled soothsayer refused the offer. “You are a man of generosity, my lord Niko, but it is not the money of men nor the wealth of kingdoms that I seek.”

  Niko’s thin brows noticeably lifted fixing his stare upon the fortune-teller’s haggard, deathly features. “You know my name?” he queried.

  The beggar smiled a secretive, all-knowing smile. “I do, my lord,” he answered, bending his head to bow, his back grossly stooped. “As well as I recognize your brothers, the lords Tupol and Temugin.”

  “We need none of your trickery, old dog!” snapped Temugin testily. “All sons of the Khan are recognized faces in this foul city of yours. What do you take us for, eh?”

  “Only for what you are, my lords. The favored sons of Kabul.”

  Temugin’s temper flared, he would have struck the soothsayer viciously were it not for Niko’s blocking purposely the space between them. “Then what is it you want?” Niko asked, face to face with the stranger.

  “Only to spread before you the future. To guide the favored sons to their moment of glory...”

  “He chatters like a washerwoman,” growled Temugin with impatience. “Look at him! He makes the gutter his bed yet speaks to us of glories!” He spat into the street, turned to leave.

  “You are indeed a child of your stars,” the soothsayer called out after him. “A true son of Scorpio. Independent, determined, a man of passions —”

  Temugin stopped in his tracks, spun around. “How did you know my starsign?” he demanded.

  The enigmatic smile returned. He looked long and hard at Tupol, the youngest of the sons, saying, “And you are of the sign of the immortal lion. Born to be a leader of men, a conqueror.”

  Temugin laughed; his vest of linked mail glimmered. “Him? A leader? A conqueror? Why, have you no eyes in your shrunken head, old man? My brother is but half a man! Deformed at birth, bastard son of a woman whose belly had to be cut open to give him life!”

  The soothsayer said nothing. Niko seemed disturbed by his brother’s cruel tirade against Tupol but caution advised him not to pick a second fight. Tupol did nothing to dislodge his wry smile as he watched Temugin become livid; what thought passed through his mind neither Niko nor the beggar could tell. Tupol was used to such offense; had been subjected to the laughter and mockery of all his brothers since his earliest memories. Each, though, through the years had been carefully recorded and tucked away into deep, musty recesses. Dormant for the moment, but ever ready to be brought swiftly to the surface of recall when needed. At length Tupol turned to the stargazer and said, “You are right, old man. My sign is of the lion. And my brother here —” he gestured to Niko.

  “ — is of Aries,” said the beggar, finishing the thought. “Impetuous, energetic...”

  “You know me perfectly,” said Niko with a grin.

  Tupol was not amused even if his romantic brother was. “You know us all. How?”

  “By the aura that surrounds every mortal man. Each of us has it, few have learned to recognize it. Fewer still understand and make use of it.”

  Niko shifted uneasily. “And you are here to do what, old man?”

  The smile could not be erased, not by Temugin’s anger, nor by Tupol’s mistrust, nor even by Niko’s growing fear of what the stars portended. “I am here to read for you, my lords. To aid you one and all against the others...”

  Temugin frowned. “Against whom, fool? What have we — sons of the mighty Kabul, conquerors and masters of half the world — to fear?”

  “Keep still!” barked Tupol. “I want to hear him out.”

  “There is much evil in Samarkand,” the soothsayer went on in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “Army against army. Nation against nation. Father against son.” And here he paused dramatically to let his words sink in and take hold. “Even brother against brother.”

  “We know this already,” scoffed the youngest, waving his mi
sshapen arm as if to dismiss the matter.

  The stranger nodded sternly, severely; he stood up more erect, his back slightly straightening. “Then you, all you three, shall need one such as I to guide you.”

  “He’s deranged,” huffed Temugin. “Suffering from brainstroke. Let’s be gone from this place at once.”

  Niko would have gladly gone with him, and in fact was ready to turn and leave, when Tupol said, “What proof have you that your readings are accurate?”

  The beggar sighed, lifted his palms outward and upward in a heaven-bound gesture. “Let my predictions speak for themselves. This very night be warned: Danger crawls the palace like a spider. Be ye on guard against it! Then be safe, all three, at least until the armies of Lord Gamal ride like locusts from the west...”

  At this, Temugin’s interest became fired. He approached the aged sage, took hold of him by the scruff of his dirty collar. “What say you, old devil? Gamal, my brother, rides home?”

  “Three settings of the sun, three times the moon will wax and wane. Then shall he return.”

  “Preposterous,” mumbled Niko, pressing his lips. “Gamal is yet hundreds of leagues away from Samarkand. Only yesterday eve the pigeons flew bearing messages of his victories against the Turks.”

  “Three days,” said the soothsayer, repeating his prediction.

  The market teemed with life all around, but Temugin was aware of none of it. His mind thought only of the hated Gamal, returning home to a hero’s welcome. What changes would his arrival bring? Kabul might be moved to name the soldier as heir as result of these new gains. And so, the most mistrustful of the three suddenly became the most believing. Over the objections of Niko, he said, “Come with me now, old man. If, in three days’ time, Gamal truly returns, I shall find further need of you.”